Somebody Tame That Slaine!
by Timothy Bourbon Belmonte III
Summary: Aldnoah.Zero fic. Cruhteo has a friendly chat with Slaine about his egg-ceptional hidden talent.


Somebody Tame That Slaine!

"Tell me where the egg is!" Cruhteo yelled. "I need that poultry goodness dripping into my lips!"

Cruhteo of the VERS Empire had recently ensnared his young ward/punching-bag Slaine Troyard into one of those bondage mansions you see in the darkest corners of the universe. He had enough of the boy's impurity, both genetic and sexual. He lacked the Martian genes that Cruhteo had pumping through his patriotic veins, and lacked the cold, homogenous stare of his fellow VERS troops. How could such an Earthling be so meek, so putrid, and so refreshingly nubile? Whatever the answer was, he was too unfit to serve his empire or to even pilot a Kataphrakt. Instead, his only worth was to serve as the Count's boy toy.

Slaine Troyard has been chained across a black wall, nothing to protect his skin from the harsh environment and the brisk air. He was embarrassed as Cruhteo focused upon his crotch, not seeing a penis but a cloaca no different than a chicken's. Deep in his consciousness, Slaine asked why. Why was he given a small hole to excrete his matter than superior human biology? At the very least, he would've been thankful with a rooster cock. But no, he had no penis. He had no asshole. He only had a tight little chicken-hole for where eggies come out. And for a boy going through puberty and being surrounded by the perils of man-on-man sex, that was just no good.

"For… the last time," Slaine said as his body quivered for sustenance. "I'm spent. I can't lay any eggs unle—"

"Unless what?" Cruhteo asked. "Unless I do this?"

Cruhteo kicked his boot into Slaine's tight cloaca, causing the boy to feel as much pain as any man would if their testicles were injured. The cloaca slowly expanded before contracting again, doing so a few more times as tears shed from Slaine's eyes. At his prime, he was a lowly pilot of Mars. Now, he was the McNugget to Cruhteo's happy meal.

"I wonder what Slaine would taste like if I fried him," Cruhteo thought. "Would he taste like chicken or what? I know humans taste like pork, so what if you mixed chicken and pork together? Would he just taste like a Mexican hot dog that's long past its prime, so one of those turduckens the great Jupiter archives taught us all about? And when I eventually fry Slaine, I'll need some dipping sauce like barbecue, or sweet & sour, or maybe some honey mustard. Too bad there's no honey mustard on Mars. The damn emperor thought it was too ethnic for Martian cuisine. Well there's alwa—"

"What are you waiting for?!" Slaine yelled as his feet dangled from the chains.

"Christ," Cruhteo thought again. "Those feet are like a baby's. I could probably sniff them for a whole minute, and they'd smell like fresh lemon breeze. I wonder if they taste like chicken."

Cruhteo kneeled to Slaine's bare left foot, and in a single yet meandering minute, he licked all of Slaine's foot with his superior Martian tongue. Every toe, all of the sole, and parts of the hell were covered with that sweet, sweet Martian saliva. A single lick caused an electric current to go from Slaine's foot to his brain, making him go mad from the sensation. Each brush of the tongue on his foot was like when a dashing young adult eats out an unsuspecting woman through her uterus. Slaine's feet were just that sensitive, making the perfect subject for foot fetishists all across the solar system, but hopefully kept contained within the glorious Martian borders.

Eras ago, Confucius went up a mountain and meditated for days. He struggled to understand the disorder and unhappiness in the world, wondering what he could do to quell the agony. Confucius grew to be revered as a great poet whose verses are still recited every day by the descendants of his fellow countrymen, but he never figured out the key to happiness. He never realized that happiness was a Martian licking an underage boy's foot. This happiness was reserved only for Cruhteo though. From Slaine's perspective, this was almost as bad as that time the Terran pilot used his buttcheeks as bongo drums.

"May... maybe you can stop that," Slaine said.

"Maybe, schmaybe… spay me."

"Oh, I'll spay you."

"And let me be another cockless cock in this dungeon? Boy, nothing will stop me from feasting on your jailbait junk."

"But I have no junk."

"It was a metaphor!"

"…a metaphor for what?"

"Okay, poultry pussy then. Jeez sweet Louise Halevy, it's a figure of speech, Slaine. Oh, crispy Christ, why can't your intelligence be as sound as your loyalty to that princess girl we lost a few weeks ago?"

"I keep telling you, she's in hiding!"

"Why would she be in hiding? It's not like any of us wonderful Martians are crazy enough to kill her."

Slaine rolled his eyes. "You think?"

"Yes, I think. I think, therefore I am. And I am, therefore I feast on little boy feet!"

"Well at least he hasn't nibbled on my nipples," Slaine thought as he saw the blonde man twice his age still sucking on his boy-toes. "Huh. Why couldn't I get chicken feet to go with my chicken pussy?"

"Because that's the way the ball bounces," Cruhteo thought.

"Wait, you can hear my thoughts?"

"Yeah, that's how glorious Martian society works."

"And I realized that just now because…"

"Because earthlings are this generation's Southerners."

"…I know I've said this before, but you're shitting me."

"You know what else is shitting you? Your bowels. Because that's where shit comes from. From humans though. Your kind mostly poops eggs and other assorted white goo confectionaries."

Slaine had assumed in the chance event that he would meet a telepath, the conversation would be less stupid than what was going on right now. He was expecting something much more introspective and not as lewd as this meeting was going. Then again, who expected, let alone wanted, for his birth to happen? Shit happens, except for chickens, and then egg happens.

"Gooey eggs happen," Cruhteo said as his tongue was still slithering between Slaine's inferior earthling toes. "Now which button do I press to make breakfast happen?"

"I don't have buttons!" Slaine yelled.

"What about your hole? Does it have a button at the top? Like a clitoris?"

"I don't have a clitoris!" Slaine screamed as he shook the chains in a vain effort to break free.

"Come to think about it, how does chicken anatomy work? I should Google that on the superior Martian Google later today."

"Just get me out of here already!"

"Sounds like my little chicken-boy needs the hose of joy, ahoy."

Cruhteo unzipped his superior Martian uniform, pulling off his clothing to reveal the ubermensch that was the foot-licking Martian. His abs were chiseled by thousands of hours of pull-ups, his thighs only possible through as many squats as there were stars in the sky, and biceps concocted through Martian protein juice. If only his penis was just as built as the rest of his body.

Slaine giggled in one of his only moments of happiness during this event. "You're going to put that inside me? Genius."

"What? This is considered big by the wonderful VERS empire."

"So it's like how talls are smalls in coffee stores?"

"Are you implying what I think you're implying?"

"That you're a barren barista?"

"OiI I can better coffees than you can make omelettes."

"Yeah, with that little valve of yours."

"Enough!"

Cruhteo rammed his Martian member into Slaine's cloaca, fulfilling the prophecy his father made upon being fellated by a chicken. The world was an egg, and the only way to awaken the world was through the hormones of the universe, seeping into the atmosphere so the world could grow fruitful and fresh.

"I-is that all you can do, with a schlong that can be measured with ice-tongs?"

"I'll have you know that I've pleasured legions of boys and girls with my skipper, and they've given me an A+ for my services to the sexual service market. And now I'm gonna service you!"

"I thought this was torture. This is barely even rape."

"Well, how exactly does one define rape?"

"Oh God, we're going there?"

"We're going here," Cruhteo said when squeezing both of Slaine's nipples.

"Finally…"

"Oh, this is what gets you off?"

"I already told you that the princess gets me off."

"The Princess?! You think such a pure woman would defile herself in order to support your sick goals?"

"Well, look who's talking."

"Argh!"

The insults to little Cruhteo had gotten the count steamed, so steamed that as he was fucking the young Troyard, the shakes were loosening the chains. With each thrust, the screws holding the chains were breaking off. Damn that superior Martian architecture for freeing Slaine from his one-man gang bang! But the damning was nothing, for the chicken-boy was free. He used his chains as make-shift brass knuckles, clocking Cruhteo in the crotch until he couldn't feel his skipper any longer.

"Yeah…" Slaine said. "Now I can finally get to the princess!"

"But you have nothing to pleasure her with!"

"Oh yes I do."

Slaine gave a final look to Cruhteo as he was almost ready to run off to the Terrans, opening his mouth to reveal a perverted tongue waiting to penetrate the Princess's pussy.

"Damn you, Slaine!"

"You know what they say about dams. They only get stronger if the beaver game does."

"…what?"

"Figure of speech."

"Wh-you can't take that? That's our thing! That's the glorious Mar—"

Before Cruhteo could finish his sentence, Slaine managed to lay one egg, one egg thrown into Cruhteo's mouth. At last, Slaine's curse had managed to relieve him of his oppressor, but at what cost? What cost will Slaine pay for his mysterious powers? Also, who will make the toast to go with his eggs?


End file.
